Three chapters in three days. Huh. Look. It's called momentum and it'll last up to the point where it doesn't. Sorry.
It took him a couple of tries to prise the paperclip free of the carpet and a couple more to stumble to his feet again.
Right. Escape. That was the plan. And he had to think ahead; it was no use just picking the lock and leaving if he was just going to get caught again immediately. Okay. Last things first; he had to be able to walk through the streets without attracting too much attention. With an effort he managed to get his shirt closed enough to hide the state of his chest, and he did his best to ignore the agony of cloth on raw flesh. He frowned down at himself. The shirt remained bloodstained and buttons were missing and he had a feeling that, really, he looked like he'd just been kidnapped and tortured. Not a good look to present to the world.
He looked round thoughtfully; there was a coat hanging on the back of the door. Perfect. Well, almost perfect, when he pulled it on he discovered that it was far too big for him. Must belong to a linebacker. Or Willy. Still, it should be enough to hide the worst. Too bad it wouldn't be enough to disguise him completely. The bandage on his head was pretty recognisable, and he didn't particularly want to take it off until he could see what lay underneath. Somehow he thought an open head wound might attract more attention than he was currently comfortable with. Besides, by the feel of things, his face was bruising up nicely, which meant he was going to be noticed and he was going to be remembered. Best thing he could do would be to keep his head down and do his best not to be spotted in the first place, at least until he got to . . . until he got to . . . safety? Where the hell was safe? Where was he escaping to?
Well, the first he needed was rest. And that meant a bed, for preference. Motel. Which meant money.
Huh. He wondered . . .
A quick search of the desk drawers revealed a half bottle of scotch, a calendar full of naked women doing interesting things with vegetables and a petty cash box with about a hundred dollars inside. He pocketed the booze and the cash. The porn he left where it was. Now that he had some money, he'd be perfectly willing to bet it all on the fact that he wasn't that hard up.
Now came the difficult bit. He clambered onto the desk again and gingerly pulled himself up to the window so he could just see out into the chop shop. Scanning the room anxiously, it still took him a moment to actually see them; they were away over to the side. Oh. Looked like Steven wasn't happy with the three stooges. He couldn't hear the words, but he'd say they were being yelled at. More to the point, they were distracted and all the way over there, and he thought – he hoped – that they wouldn't be able to see either door from where they were standing.
Had to be worth a try. And it was now or never.
He climbed down, ran to the office door and carefully began to pick the lock. Took longer than it should have; his hands were shaking with pain and fatigue . . . took longer than it should have? Oh, it was one thing to know that, technically, it was possible to pick a lock with a paperclip. That was common enough knowledge, probably everyone knew that. But to actually know how long it should take him personally . . . fuck. He had to face facts; it was looking more and more likely that he was one of the bad guys.
The realisation made the click of the lock turning over and the sight of the door swinging open a hollow victory.
Still, he silently crept out into the shop floor and, as quietly as he could, shut the door behind him. Ideally, he wanted it to be a few hours before they even knew he was gone. Ideally. Not something he was going to count on. The sound of shouting came from round the corner, and he snuck in the opposite direction as fast as he could.
"You're a bunch of useless, fucking assholes! You know what we've got riding on this?"
He practically ran – admittedly on tiptoes – to the first car, and he ducked down behind it and concentrated on breathing nice and slowly. The door was just over there. Not too far at all, really. Just because it looked a good couple of miles away didn't mean it was. That was just the terror talking. He could make it. As long as they stayed away, stayed shouting, he could make it.
"You know what I had to go through to get that list in the first place? Then you go and let some thieving bastard of Dawson's forget where he put it? Oh, I swear, if Mr Mackenzie doesn't kill you, I might just do it myself."
He was okay. He was okay, but he had to go, now. He ran.
"Stupid bastards!"
Miracle of miracles, the door was unlocked, and he stumbled through it quickly, into the fresh air, into freedom and the normal world, the real world, and as fast as he could, he headed for the sound of traffic, sticking close to the edge of buildings, keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact.
He'd be fine. Chances were, as long as he didn't look like he wanted help, no one would offer to help him. And that was what was needed here, he needed to be on his own. He was the only one he could trust, and besides . . . he swallowed hard. Besides, he was the bad guy. Fuck knew what trouble associating with him could bring. And maybe he'd changed from whoever he'd been that morning, but he didn't want that. Didn't want anyone hurt because of him.
Not constantly glancing over his shoulder took an effort, but after a while he figured out – or maybe remembered – a way of surreptitiously glancing in the windows he passed, and the reflections gave him fragmentary three hundred and sixty degree vision. Also gave him a headache, but that just seemed to be part of his existence. Put up or shut up, and always, always, it was both.
At any rate, didn't seem as though anyone was following him. Maybe his luck had changed. For the moment.
Eventually he found himself on a main road, and he just couldn't go any further. Slumping onto a bench at a bus stop was the best he could do, and he was aware of the curious looks he was getting. There were a dozen people here who, if Mackenzie's people asked, would be able to say exactly where they'd last seen him. And that was bad, that was really, really bad, and still, when the old lady next to him quietly offered him her water bottle, he could feel the tears springing to his eyes.
"Thank you," he said hoarsely and he took a long and grateful drink. "Oh, thank you."
She patted his knee gently. "There, there son. It'll be all right. You'll see."
He nodded tightly and bit his lip and his head dropped into his hands and the trembling started and she didn't say anything else, just sat and rubbed his shoulder, and it suddenly occurred to him that really, this was the first act of kindness he'd ever known. That didn't help.
"That's the bus, son," she said after a time, and he stood up numbly and followed her on.
The driver eyed him suspiciously. Understandable really, God knew what he looked like. Something that might not survive the journey, probably. "Where to?" he was asked.
Anywhere. "End of the line," he mumbled and pushed a handful of change over.
The old lady looked at him expectantly and he sat next to her. Easier not to argue and for twenty minutes they sat in silence and he could feel her looking at him. "I'm Enid," she said eventually. "Enid Hart."
The question was implied, and he shook his head. "I don't know!" he whispered.
She nodded and didn't look as surprised as she should. "You look like my Alfred did when he came home," she told him and the sadness sparkled in her eyes. "I've got a comfortable sofa. If you've got nowhere else to go."
He shook his head. "You shouldn't," he said. "You don't know anything about me."
She smiled at him for a second and stared out the window. "My Alfred's out there somewhere. I can only hope that someone's being kind to him."
There was a lump in his throat. "I'm sorry," he said. "Please. Please don't ask me."
"There, there, son," she whispered, looking back at him, and her hand was comforting on his knee. "There, there. It's going to be all right."
It wasn't. And his tears fell silently.
The bus came to the end of the line, and Enid insisted on writing her address down for him, and he could see the plea, the need in her eyes, and, in some strange way, he hated himself for not letting her help him. But she'd been nice to him, kind to him, and she didn't deserve the trouble he represented. Didn't deserve to understand that he wasn't the kind of man she thought he was.
He staggered onto another bus, paid another handful of money, and this time no one spoke to him, and slowly he got further and further away from the people who were looking for him.
This time at the end of the line, he stumbled into a taxi. The driver's English wasn't up to much, but somehow, between them, they managed to get some sort of communication going, and soon he found himself, exhausted, dizzy, hurting and drenched in sweat, wobbling up to the desk at a cheap-looking motel.
"Room," he managed to say and in response to the guy's look, he produced a couple of notes. "For tonight,"
"Yeah," the man grunted and looking less interested would have been tricky. "Name?"
"Alfred Hart," he said without conscious thought.
The man nodded and scrawled it down in the book. "Number six," he said, handing the key over.
The walk from the desk to the room was further than he could fully imagine. Somehow, this place was built to a different scale, and the walls swayed in the breeze.
The door opened. Somehow, the door opened, and he just managed to get it closed and locked behind him before he fell forwards onto the bed and warm darkness.
It was Christmas and they were far from home, lying on a roofgarden staring up at unfamiliar stars that weren't visible anyway.
He turned, smiling, but the man next to him was blurry and indistinct, but he should know him, he should . . . Steven? And the features came into focus. Steven. His friend. He knew that. He'd always known that.
"Not how I wanted to spend Christmas," he complained, knowing it was the fifth time that evening.
Steven took the candy cane out of his mouth and grinned. "Well, where do you want to be?"
He considered. "Somewhere with snow and people singing. Somewhere with fir trees and decorations. Someplace we can sit with a drink and watch Jimmy Stewart."
"Hot chocolate and mulled wine and stollen," Steven suggested dreamily.
"Stollen?" He raised an eyebrow. "That the stuff with the marzipan?"
"Yeah," Steven agreed.
"You're a sick, sick man," he said, shaking his head seriously. Steven smiled and poured another couple of glasses of wine. "I wish . . . " he began, staring up at the brightest star they were pretending was there. "I wish . . ." he trailed off.
"What?" Steven asked, after a moment.
Nothing. He was happy, and he turned his head and the thought hung between them, and Steven smiled at him, warmth in his eyes.
"Still," he sighed. "Snow."
Steven grinned and reached into his pocket and threw his hand in the air, and suddenly the air was alive with little, delicate paper snowflakes. Wonderingly, he caught a handful.
"Are they really all different?" he asked, in amazement, at the detail at the thought, at the everything.
"Wouldn't be snowflakes if they weren't," Steven told him gravely. Somewhere below them a clock chimed. "Happy Christmas."
"Happy Christmas," he answered, his eyes still on the snowflakes, caught in the warm summer breeze. If they were cold, it'd be just like the real thing.
He yelped as something cold went down the back of his neck. An ice cube. "Oh, you bastard," he complained, wiggling frantically, and Steven was doubled over with laughter, and then suddenly Steven looked up, and all the humour, all the warmth and love had left his eyes, and he was looking at something over his shoulder, grinning at something, and he turned, and Willy was standing there with his soldering iron, and the snowflakes were on fire, just little clumps of paper, blackening, curling at the edges, and they were burning and so was he, and Steven was laughing and the pain was everywhere, and someone was at the door . . .
Someone was at the door and he woke up in an instant. There was a noise at the lock, not a key, someone was picking it, and they were trying to get in his room, and they'd found him, and they were going to hurt him again, and he didn't even remember if there was a window in here, hadn't really seen anything other than the bed. Fuck. Stupid.
The only thing to do, the only thing he could do was lie still and wait, keep his eyes closed and his breathing even and hope for an opportunity.
The door creaked open and a man stepped inside the room and he had to hide his wince as the light was turned on. Sounded like there was only one of them. That was good. Maybe he could do something. Maybe. If he thought he was asleep, if he thought he wasn't a threat, maybe he could fight, maybe he could run.
"I know you're awake," the man said quietly, and he couldn't possibly know. There was no way he could know. He stayed perfectly still and prayed the man was bluffing.
The man sighed and took a step towards him, walking up to the bed, and he had to try and hide the tension, the fear. Had to control the trembling, keep it all locked inside.
There was a pause, and he knew the man was staring at him, could almost feel the moment when the man stopped breathing. "Fuck. Oh, fuck." The words were a low, breathy tremble, full of rage and helplessness and fear, and other things, many, many other things that he didn't understand.
And he wasn't going to try, he needed to escape, before this man dragged him back to Mackenzie or Dawson, before he could hurt, kill, betray.
His eyes snapped open and he launched himself upwards, swinging wildly, and dimly he registered blond hair and an expression of confusion, and then he was punching as hard as he could, and he took pleasure in the cry of pain and shock, and the the man was falling backwards, blood at his mouth, and he was running for the door and freedom and safety.
Hope you enjoyed.
